


The One Where Greg is Exasperated & Confused, Sally is a Cow and Sherlock is Apparently Married

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anderson is a knobhead, But its not said with any malice, Greg calls Sherlock a bastard a lot, Gregs POV, M/M, Most of the time, Mrs Hudson is lovely as always, Sally is a cow, alternative meetings, minor mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: When Greg first met Sherlock he was rude, abrupt, acerbic, strung out and practically homeless, and was most certainly not in any way marriage material.  This is probably why, when four years later, Sherlock flippantly mentions that he is married, no one believes him.





	The One Where Greg is Exasperated & Confused, Sally is a Cow and Sherlock is Apparently Married

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wanted to do a 'Secret Boyfriend/Husband' fic. I know it's been done a hundred times, but I felt it was something I should contribute to.
> 
> Also, sorry for the title, but I really couldn't think of a decent one and I already have a fic titled 'Untitled' so felt I probably shouldn't use that one again. If you can think of an appropriate title, please feel free to leave it in the comments section!
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

Greg positioned his torch to where he heard the moan and almost missed the huddled heap of miserable as the beam swept across the floor of the musty warehouse.

If it hadn’t been for the slight twitch he had seen as his torch swept the left hand side of the room, he would have kept moving, mistaking the noise as outside interference.

He swept the torch back over what he had originally thought was a bundle of old rags and took a step closer.  Sure enough, sticking out from the old, stained blanket was a hand, far too skinny and pale than a living person’s hand had any right to be.

Another groan sounded from the pile, just as quiet as the first one.

“Donovan, I need possible back-up in the north office, ground floor” he said, quietly as to not startle the man under the blankets, into his radio.

“Be there in two, gov” came the crackled reply.

“Are you injured” Greg called to the man, taking a cautious step closer.  The last thing he needed was to startle a possible drug addled homeless person and end up with a knife in his gut.

No reply came.  “Sir, do you need assistance?”

Slowly, the figure under the bundle sat up and, squinting in the torch light, slowly brought his hand up to block his eyes from the light.

“The bastard took my wallet and phone” the man slurred.  

Greg looked at the man and thought that being lifted of his possessions was the least of his worries.  The man, mid twenties, surely, was thin, far too thin and very gaunt looking.  The left side of his face was an alarming shade of purple and black, making the rest of him look far too pale.  His lip was split and the hand, that Greg could see was being held against his chest, sat an angle that he was sure wasn’t natural.

“Do you need assistance?” Greg asked again, even though the answer was clearly, yes, this man needed medical assistance.

Greg took another few steps closer.  Instinct told him that this man wasn’t going to hurt him, especially if his wrist was actually broken, which Greg was certain it was.

“What happened?” Greg asked, Shining the torch so it wasn’t directly pointing in the man’s face.  The man lowered his hand.

“Oh, you know how it goes.  I refused to pay, so they decided to use their fists and feet instead.”

“Refused to pay?” Either this was a drug deal gone wrong or a pimp asserting his power over his ‘ _Staff_ ’.  By the look of the guy, it could be either or.  He was clearly off his tits, if the track marks up his bare arms and uneven pupils was anything to go by but then, take away the bruising and the sallow skin and the guy was a right looker; angled features, plush lips, dark curls, albeit in desperate need of a wash.  As Greg got closer, he realised that the hair wasn’t the only thing in need of a wash.  He was only two feet away from the man and he could smell him.  He wasn’t rank, but he smelled by no means pleasant either.

“Substandard product.  Are you here about the body?” the man asked, ripping Gregs attention away from the man’s lack of hygiene.

“Do you know anything about it?” he asked as he was indeed here about the body, found in the top floor of the warehouse.  

Just then Donovan jogged up to his side, stopping to look at the sorry mess in front of them.  She threw Greg a look to say ‘ _Really_.” Greg just shrugged.  The man paid her no attention.

“Not much” the man said, trying and failing to get to his feet.  He fell back down onto his arse and hissed as his arm jolted, but decided that that was the best place to stay.

“Call for a medic” Greg whispered to Donovan, and she turned and spoke into her radio as the man continued what he had to say.

“Just that it is the fourth body in as many weeks and you are no closer to finding the killer now than you were when the first body showed up.”

“Alright, sir” Donovan interjected, taking a step towards the man, hand reaching for cuffs.  “You need to come down to the station…”

The man looked up at Greg and kept talking, completely ignoring Donovan’s existence.  “The bodies, according to the papers, were all female, white, nurses, aged between twenty three and thirty.  Other than that, they had nothing in common.”

“That part wasn’t put in the papers” Greg said.  The man waved his comment away with his good hand,

“There were no traces of blood or semen, from the victims or the killer and no evidence that the bodies had been molested in anyway.  Cause of death was strangulation and then they had their necks snapped once they stopped breathing.”

“Again, that last part wasn’t made public.”  Again, the man ignored Greg.

“All bodies have been found in disused factories and warehouses, nowhere near their place of residence or place of work.  None of them had any traces of drugs or alcohol in their system.  They were killed at the site they were found, which means they either came here of their own free will or were coerced by the killer.  Without a look at their personal effects or a decent look at the actual crime-scene it would be hard to say which.  They put up a fight, so if the killer was someone they knew, it wasn’t someone they trusted, otherwise there would have been less damage done to the bodies.”

Greg stood there, his mouth open, unable to believe what he was hearing.  If this was not knowing much, then he’d love to see what the man was capable with all the facts.

“How do I know you’re not the one who killed the women?” Greg asked, although he already knew the answer.

The man scoffed.  “Please.  Those women were all strong, fit women.  Their attacker was a strong built, fit male, not a scrawny junkie, plus, there are no scratches on my hands and arms.  The women would have scratched at the attacker as he strangled them.”

“You could have been wearing gloves.  After all, there were no fingerprints.”

The man rolled his eyes.  

“Fire your forensic tech.”

“What?”  This came from both Greg and Donovan.

“Footprints” The man stated. This cleared up nothing and clearly it showed on their faces.  

A growl of frustration left the man’s throat.

“You are looking for an older man, with a poor upbringing and a physical disability.”

“How could you possibly know that?” _And more to the point_ , Greg though, _What did it have to do with bloody footprints_?

“Your suspect wears a foot brace, more than likely due to some childhood deformity that was never fixed - probably because his parents were poor -, quite possibly caused by polio...”

The junkie looked towards Donovan, as if only just noticing her, and judging by his current state, Greg didn’t think that was an impossibility.

“Is it normal to partake in sexual activities while on duty?”

The noise of outside, distant traffic was the only sound to be heard as Greg took in the man’s words.  What the hell was he on about?  He had been about to tell Greg how he knew the murderer had polio. He then looked to Donovan, who looked like she could commit murder herself.

“Oh, bloody ... tell me he’s not…”

“It was the shoes that gave it away” the skinny man continued  looking back to Greg and cutting off Greg’s reprimand to Donovan, as if he hadn’t stopped his initial speil to out Donovan’s activities.  “According to the footprints, _present at all four murder sites_ , the murderer wore odd shoes, which indicates either a level of such incompetence, that he couldn’t even get himself dressed properly, or a deformity of one of his feet that requires a special shoe or foot or leg brace.  Keeping in consideration he has committed four almost perfect murders, I’m going to go with the latter, wouldn’t you agree?”

Greg didn’t get a chance to answer because at the moment, the man went a funny shade of green and then leaned forward and expelled the contents of his stomach over Greg’s shoes.

~o~

As brilliant as the man was, Sherlock Holmes, apparently ( _“No, of course I didn’t make the name up.  Who would make up a name like Sherlock Holmes!_ ”), was also difficult and exceedingly frustrating.  

First off, he refused to see the medic who had come via Donovan’s summons.  

Greg then told him that he would have to go to the hospital to at least have his arm x-rayed.  At first the man declined, and then, when standing up garnered a pained yelp out of the man, he conceded that it probably wasn’t one of Greg’s most idiotic ideas.  Greg refused to let the barb - one from a junkie he had only just met - bother him and assisted him to the ambulance.  

The man then refused to ride in an ambulance, stating he would take a taxi.

“You have no wallet” Greg reminded him.  

“Fine.  Which one is yours?” he asked, looking towards the police cars that were parked in front of the building.  “Never mind” he said. The DI was going to tell him that there was no way he was getting into Greg’s car.  He had already ruined a pair of perfectly good shoes.  The upholstery would take forever to stop smelling like vomit, but before Greg could say any of this, the man was opening the passenger door of Greg’s car and sliding into the front seat.

“Oh, for fucks...Sally” he called and his Sergeant came over from where she was directing another officer.  “I’m taking this one up to the hospital.  You’re in charge” he told her, suddenly feeling very tired.

~o~

Greg waited at the hospital.  He didn’t need to.  He knew the kid wasn’t going to be released nor would he be able to question him.  He had the kids address, which didn’t take long to get.  After all, there wasn’t likely to be many Sherlock Holmes’ floating around London. But for some reason, he felt a need to make sure he was going to be okay before he left.

An hour and ten minutes later a doctor came out to the waiting room and headed straight for Greg.

“Are you the gentleman who brought Sherlock Holmes in?” he asked.  Greg nodded.

“Right, we don’t usually give out information about patients to people not listed as next of kin, but he told me to come out and tell the very obvious looking cop the information that he needed to hear, or he’d be pacing the waiting room all night.”

Greg frowned  “Very obvious...? And you came straight over to me.”

The doctor smiled.  “It was either you or a choice between an obese woman on a gopher, the young mother holding a baby or  the old gentleman who looks like he died a week ago” he said, leaning in to practically whisper in Gregs ear.

Greg looked around.  The doctor was right, there were only five people waiting in the waiting room.

“Anyway” the doctor said, leaning back into his own space.  “He will be fine, Sherlock.  He has a broken wrist multiple bruises and is coming down off of a pretty impressive high, but with some help” Greg heard ‘ _Rehab_ ’ in that part of the sentence “And a few extra meals, he will hopefully be fine.”

“Right” Greg said, not sure what else to say.  “Good.”  He still felt bad leaving the lad all on his own.  The doctor must have sensed this.

“We have managed to contact a brother” he told Greg.  “He’s on his way down now.”

That made Greg feel better.

Greg thanked the doctor and then made to leave, only to stop again.

“Just a second” he called to the doctors retreating back and the man stopped and turned to face Greg.

Greg dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a pen and a business card.  Sherlocks talents were too good to be wasted on getting high, and Greg could use someone as observant as him from time-to-time.

“Can you give this to him, for me” he said flipping the card over and scribbling a message on the back.

‘ _If you want to put your talents to use, get yourself cleaned up and give me a call_.’

He handed the card over to the doctor.

“I’ll make sure he gets it” the doctor said with a smile and then turned and took himself out of the waiting room.

Greg sood there for a few seconds, wondering if giving his details to a junkie was a good idea and then, deciding that there was nothing for it now, he turned and headed out of the waiting room and down the corridor.

“Evening” he nodded to a tall man, dressed in an impeccable suit, coming in the doors as Greg patted down his pockets and withdrew a packet of cigarettes.

The man just gave Greg a disapproving frown and kept walking forward and Greg just shrugged as a pulled a cigarette from the small box and slipped it into his mouth as he stepped out into the cool night air.

The first drag was always the best and he let out a sigh as he exhaled the smoke from his mouth.  He had needed this after the night he had had.  

Sherlock bloody Holmes.  An unusual name for an unusual man. And a pain in the arse, to boot.  Greg just knew, that if he had the fortune (he still wasn’t sure if it’d be good or bad) to run into that man again, he would be trouble.  

~o~

###  **Three and a half years later...**

Greg waved a thanks to Mrs Hudson and jogged up the stairs, only stopping briefly to knock on the open door.  

“Sherlock” he called out, looking around the empty room.

From the other end of the flat he heard some mumbling and Greg rolled his eyes.  Yes, god forbid His Highness be interrupted.

Sherlock finally made his way out into the living area, a frown on his face.  “What could you possibly need now, Lestrade?” the man grumbled.  “I solved you a case not even eight hours ago."

“Yeah, it’s good to see you too, Sherlock” Greg replied, ignoring the mans irritation.  After all, Greg wasn’t actually here because he wanted to be here.  He had, in actual fact, gone out of his way, not that Sherlock would ever acknowledge that.

“The point, Lestrade” Sherlock snapped.

Greg dug into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag with a wallet inside.  “I do believe this is yours” he said, dangling it up in front of the consulting pain in the arse.  “Unless there is another posh looking git going by the name of William Sherlock…”

“Alright, yes, thank you, Lestrade” Sherlock interjected, snatching the bag out of Greg’s hand.

“Your name is William and you go by Sherlock?” Greg grinned.  God forbid the man in front of him do anything even remotely common.

“Well, if you must know, my namesake carried out acts of an unspeakable nature, so we don’t acknowledge it.”

“Murder, rape, human trafficking?”

“No, nothing so exciting” Sherlock said, sounding somewhat disappointed.  “He shut down a chain of five star restaurants across Europe to instead run away with an American woman named Barbra and opened up a kebab shop in New York.”

“You are joking, right?”

Sherlock let out a low sigh.  “If only I were. The restaurants had been in the family for two generations.”

“Okay then” Greg said, trying, once again, to wrap his mind around the man that was Sherlock Holmes.  “Anyway, you wanna tell me why your wallet was in the flat of a man that killed two prostitutes last month?”

“Is that where it was?  I did wonder at what point it had fallen out of my pocket.”

“You don’t seemed surprised at the location.”

“Why would I be.  I was in there three days ago, looking for evidence.  Who do you think directed Dimmock to the correct location?”  At this a disbelieving laugh left the taller mans mouth.  “God, you don’t actually think he figured it out on his own, did you?”

Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  It wasn’t this grey when he first met Sherlock.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to go after these guys alone.”

“Who said I was alone?”

Greg was about to reprimand Sherlock on involving his homeless network when another voice filtered down the hallway.

“Sherlock, get in here now, git, or your shelves are going to be crooked.”

“Who is that?” Greg asked, surprised that not only did Sherlock have a visitor, but one that appeared to be in his bedroom.

“Someone helping me put up shelves”

Greg grinned.

A confused, yet very petulant frown adorned Sherlock’s face.  “What?”

“Putting up shelves?” Greg asked, his grin getting bigger.

“Yes?” Sherlock replied, still apparently confused at Greg’s amusement.

“Right, I’ll leave you two to it, shall I” Greg said, his amusement at Sherlock’s uncomfortableness growing.

“Yes, please do, and don’t come back unless it is with at least a seven.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it” Greg replied, letting Sherlock usher him hurriedly out of the flat.  “You two have a good night” he called over his shoulder, with a cheeky wink and chuckled when Sherlock slammed the door closed.

God, who knew Sherlock Holmes would have someone over?  

Greg left with a bit of a spring in his step and whistling a happy little tune.  Maybe the handyman in Sherlock’s room would put the grumpy bastard in  a good mood for once.

~o~

###  **2 months later...**

**I’ll be out of the country for ten days.  Don’t bother me.  SH**

Greg looked at the message with bleary eyes and then at the time on his clock.  3:37 am.  God, when that bastard got back in the country he was going to make his life a living hell, at least for the first 24 hours.

Surely that message could have waited.  Greg had only got to bed an hour and a half ago and he had to be up in less than three hours.  Plus, the ‘ _Don’t bother me_ ’ bit at the end really wasn’t necessary.  Why in the hell would Greg bother contacting him if the bastard wasn’t even in the country?

Although it would serve him right if Greg did text him.  Constantly.  Greg hadn’t gone on many holidays since meeting Sherlock but every time, Sherlock interrupted his few days of peace and quiet with ridiculous and very irrelevant deductions and constant complaining and nagging.

Greg slammed his phone down on the cupboard top and pulled the duvet over his head, hoping sleep would return swiftly.  It didn’t .  All he could wonder about was where the daft bugger was off to this time.  In the past eighteen months, Sherlock had sent Greg three messages saying exactly the same thing.  The last time he returned he had been sunburnt and in a foul mood.  Anderson had cried three times and Donovan had threatened to transfer to the continent.

After ten minutes, Greg sighed and pushed the blanket back.  Sleep was clearly not coming anytime soon.  Maybe a shower would help.

~o~

###  **Four months later...**

“Sorry, did we interrupt something?” Greg asked as Sherlock strode towards him, his usual trademark coat and scarf replaced with a black and grey morning suit and a hastily tied purple tie.  

“Not at all.  I’m on my way to a wedding” Sherlock responded, not looking at Greg, but taking in every detail he could of the crime scene.

“A wedding?”

Sherlock slowly spun on the spot, looking at the ground around him and distantly said “Yes, you know, that thing that happens when two people who who feel deeply sentimental about each other say some vowels, exchange rings and then go and have a sex holiday.”

“Yeah, I know what a wedding is and it’s called a honeymoon, not a bloody...nevermind, I just never took you to the as the type to attend one. A wedding that is.”

Sherlock shrugged and stepped over to the body and crouched down, holding out a hand.  On cue, a random tech put some gloves in it and he started examining the corpse.

Greg winced at the sight of the tails of what he was certain was a ridiculously expensive jacket, dragging in the dirt and possibly other unsavoury substances.

“The body has been here for four, maybe five hours, but he wasn’t killed here” Sherlock said, lifting up the corpses hands and studying the fingernails.  “He was killed then cleaned meticulously before being dumped.  Judging by the state of his hands and the tread of his shoes, I would say that he is an office worker that does some walking around.  Nothing too fancy, real estate agent, possibly small time lawyer.  Cause of death was the blow to the base of the skull.  There is no indication of alcohol or drug use, nor any sign of being in an altercation before he died, so either he didn’t hear the person coming up behind him or he trusted them.

“Look at his social calendar - and he will have one, more than likely on his phone - for his movements before time of death.  If he had nothing on, look at either his lover or work colleagues.  If he had an appointment, either work or pleasure, check CCTV footage.  Who ever it was would have followed him.  This wasn’t an unplanned or spontaneous attack.  The killer knew exactly what they were doing.”

Sherlock stood up, stripped his gloves and turned to face Greg.  “I am assuming you can go on from here.  I’m not sure why you even called me.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe it was the thirty-odd text messages yesterday demanding I give you a case.”

“That was yesterday” Sherlock complained.

“Sorry, I’ll see if I can speak to the criminal class and see if they can coincide their activities with you boring days.”

“Muchly appreciated.  Was that all?”

“No it is not all” Greg grumbled, stepping up to Sherlock.  “I can see now why you don’t usually wear a tie.  Who in the hell taught you how to tie one?”  And he brought his hand up to untie the mess that was around Sherlocks neck and re-tied it with a neat knot and even ends.

“I deleted anything that had to do with boarding school, including ties” Sherlock said, batting Gregs hands out of the way when he went to smooth Sherlock’s hair.  Greg grinned.  He knew it would get a reaction to try and touch those curls.

“Now that is all” Greg said, stepping back.

“I’ll be unavailable for the next two weeks.  Don’t bother me” Sherlock said, in that bored yet demanding way that he has and then strode away.

“We can say what we want about his attitude, but the freak certainly looks fine when dressed up.”

Greg realised he was staring at the way Sherlock’s jacket cinched in at his waist and framed his backside quite well and quickly looked to Donovan.

“Can you not call him that?” He asked, knowing it was a fruitless effort.

Donovan just shrugged and walked away.  Greg got onto locating the victims phone.

~o~

###  **3 months later….**

“One of these days, you are going to get yourself killed and then do you know what will happen?” Greg practically shouted as the medic pulled the shirt off of Sherlocks shoulders with a gentleness that Greg wasn’t really sure the consulting idiot, currently sitting in the back of an ambulance with several knife wounds along his ribs and torso, deserved.  

Sherlock hissed as he was forced to flex his shoulders back.  Greg ignored him.

“What that means, Sherlock, is that I will actually have to put up with your more than arrogant brother in person - which if I am being honest, just the prospect of that eventuality scares the shit out of me.  It will also mean a fuck-ton of paperwork for me because you are not actually meant to be here, let alone, running off without me.”

Greg ran his hand through his hair again, clutching a handful when he reached the base of his skull and wondered for the umteenth time how he wasn’t bald yet.

“It was a perfectly sound plan, Lestrade” Sherlock said, although it lacked its usual superior tone.  “I knew you weren’t far away and the only reason that imbecile got any hits in was because…”

Sherlock was cut off.

“Is that a wedding ring around your neck?”  Sally Donovan sounded like she wanted to laugh and it took a few seconds to realise that she was looking at Sherlock.

Greg looked and, sure enough, around his neck was a silver chain and on that chain was a silver, or more likely - white gold, wedding band.

“Wonderful observation, Donovan.  I can see why you decided to become a police officer.”  Sherlocks tone was flat, as it usually was when he couldn’t bothered being sarcastic towards the sergeant.

“Who’d you nick that from, then?” She replied with a smirk.

Sherlock pulled in a long suffering breath through his nose before throwing his best glare at Donovan, which was ruined somewhat by the wince that followed the medic putting antiseptic on one of his wounds.

“If you must know, Sergeant Donovan, the wedding ring is mine.”

At this, Donovan barked out a harsh laugh.  “Yours?  Who in their right mind would marry you?”

The look on Sherlock’s face was brief - blink and you’d miss it - but there was emotional hurt there.  Something that was not normally found on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

“Donovan” Greg growled.  True, Sherlock was the most unsocial person he had ever met, but there was a line that he would not let his team cross and Sally was getting pretty damn close to it.

“But seriously?” She said, turning to Greg.  “The Freak, married!”

“Go see what Moore is up to” he ordered, and his tone brooked no argument.  

Looking like a teenager who had been told to clean their room, Donovan stomped away.

“Sorry about h…”

“As I was saying,” Sherlock said, speaking over Greg.  “The only reason that I managed to get cut in the first place….”

Greg let Sherlock go on and rant about the incompetence of Greg’s team.  Apparently the issue of him being married or not was not up for discussion.

~o~

###  **2 months later….**

Greg grumbled again about the lack of light in the apartment.  Why’d he get all the weird ones?

This time, it was apparently vampires.  In London.  Who liked to nail their windows shut and paint them black.  Apparently Vampires didn’t like light bulbs over 25 watt either.  God, where in the hell was the spotlights?  He could hardly make out anything.

Just then the far corner lit up, catching Gregs attention, and he turned to see the light from Sherlock’s phone light up the mans face.  Sherlock looked happy, like really, truly happy.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last long.  The light also attracted the attention of Anderson.

“That from the little wifey” The forensic tech taunted and without another word, Sherlock’s face shuttered closed and, tapping a quick reply to whatever message he had, he locked the phone and put it in his pocket.

Ever since Donovan had spotted Sherlocks ring, both she and Anderson, had been endless in their campaign to let everyone know that Sherlock had an imaginary wife.

Sherlock managed to ignore all comments and probing questions about his current relationship status, but every now and then, Greg saw the hurt that was there.

Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine Sherlock in any form of long term relationship, nor could he fathom why he would make one up and he knew there would be no point in asking.  Sherlock would refuse to answer and change the topic.  

Sherlock made it clear, to everyone.  His personal life was no one else’s business and Greg was prepared to offer him that privacy.

“Anderson.  The fact that we can’t see anything in here means that you’re not doing your job.  Go see about the lighting.”

Anderson huffed, and walked back out of the flat to see where the technicians were with the floodlights and Greg didn’t miss the smirk that came over Sherlock’s face at Andersons reprimand.  

“And you,” Greg said to Sherlock.  “No personal calls and texts while on the job.”  

“I am not one of your employees, Gavin” he replied, bored and pulling out his phone again.  

“Greg!” Greg cried.  Four and a half years and you’d think the _genius_ would have learnt a four letter name by now.

“I’m not one of his employees either.”

Greg groaned.  Why’d he always get the weird ones?

~o~

###  **2 months later…**

Greg thundered up the stairs, thankful that Mrs Hudson was a night owl, because Sherlock Holmes was not answering his bloody phone.

“Sherlock” He said, as he burst into the living room of 221B Baker Street.  

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, the animated smile on his face quickly turning into one of calculating observation as he took in Gregs harried appearance.  

“Sherlock?” came a tinny voice from the speakers of the laptop and Greg realised that Sherlock was video chatting with someone.  

“Sorry…” Greg said, torn between leaving and getting to the point of his visit.

“The butcher murders” he said, holding a hand up to the screen, indicating that whoever he was chatting to, and Greg couldn’t see as the screen was facing away from him, to wait silently.

“Yeah, we got another one. Which means...”

“You have a serial killer on your hands.”

“We have a serial killer on our hands” Greg agreed, still somewhat phased that Sherlock could be so calm about these things.

“Any deviations?” he asked, his face becoming more curiouser.

“Not unless you take into account that this one was a Jewish butcher.”

Sherlock frowned for about five seconds and then suddenly his face came to life and he grinned.  “Oh, that is marvellous.  Graham, text me the address, I’ll be about ten minutes behind you.”

“I could just take you with me, and it’s Greg, you berk.”

Sherlock waved his comment away.  “Text me the address.”

Greg huffed out a sigh.  God, this damn man and his peculiarities.  “Fine.  I’ll see you there.”

“And…” Sherlock started, but Greg cut him off as he turned to leave the room.

“I’ll try not to let Anderson muck up the scene too much” he called and headed down the stairs.

Whoever was on the other end of that Skype call must be interesting, that’s for sure.  The last time Greg interrupted a conversation like that was between Sherlock and his parents and Sherlock had just slammed the lid of his laptop shut as soon as Greg walked in the room.  No goodbye or anything.  

Very interesting, indeed.

~o~

###  **3 months later…**

Greg was still trying to get over the fact that Sherlock had agreed to come to the pub with them.  

He always asked after a case, so long as it wasn’t too late and the consulting detective always sneered down his nose at Greg, but not tonight.

Tonight he had let out a pitiful sigh and said.  “Sure.  It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

To be honest, Greg had wished the man had said no.  It was depressing looking at him.  He was miserable.  It wasn’t completely obvious, but Greg knew when the man wasn’t happy and tonight, he wasn’t happy.  He was also exceedingly uncomfortable, sitting on the edge of the booth, nursing a beer he obviously didn’t want, while a woman, in a low cut, tighter than skin top stopped by his side and started actually flirting with Sherlock Holmes.

“Leave” the man said, not even looking at the woman.  Right then and there, Greg decided that Sherlock was definitely gay, because no straight man could ignore breasts, that big and bouncy, when they were practically thrust in ones face.

The blonde just giggled, thinking Sherlock’s refusal was him playing hard to get.  She apparently didn’t get turned down that often.  

“Come on.  Just one dance.  I’ll make it one you’ll never forget.” She smiled coyly, twisting her hair around the tip of her finger.

At this, Sherlock did look up.  He opened his mouth and Greg knew, in an instant what was about to happen.  This poor girls entire sex life plus every insecurity she had ever had was about to be laid open, quite possibly at a volume that not only every member at their table would hear, but the few tables surrounding them as well.

“Sherlock” Greg said jovially, getting the other man’s attention.  “Come and help me get the next round of drinks.”

“I’m not finished this one” he replied.

“Then I won’t buy you another one, but I’ll still need a hand carrying them over and you’re the only one here not drunk.  Come on” and Greg got up and made his way towards the bar, not giving Sherlock a chance to decline.

Thankfully, Sherlock followed.  Nothing was said at the bar, but going by the dirty look Sherlock threw his way, Greg knew Sherlock knew why he had dragged him away.

“Let’s not make anyone cry tonight, yeah?” he suggested as they made their way back to the table, each carrying several beers.

The woman was still there, now talking to Donovan.  

“Oh, shit” Greg muttered under his breath.  This couldn’t be good.

“... don’t feel bad about it though, he likes the imaginary sort, you know what I mean."

The woman tilted her head to the side.  “You mean like role playing?” She asked.

Sally snorted back a laugh.  “Even more imaginary.”

“Donovan” Greg warned, as he got to the table, setting the drinks down.

“Just telling her not to waste her time.  Plenty of other fine men in the pub, she at least chase one who is going to acknowledge her.”

“Enough” he said, pointing a finger at her.  Seriously, when was she going to let it drop.

Greg went to tell Sherlock to ignore her, but when he turned around Sherlock was gone.  When he looked around, he saw a very familiar silhouette walking past the window outside.

~o~

###  **2 months later...**

“What’s the matter freak.  Your ‘ _wife_ ’ actually leave you?”

Greg had made it a life rule that, unless it were actually a last resort, he’d never hit a woman, or anyone smaller than him, but right now, he was willing to break both those rules and punch Sally Donovan in the fucking mouth.

Sherlock had been snappish, more so than his usual self.  He clearly hadn’t slept recently and god only knew when he had last had anything to eat.  To top it all off, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in several days and his usually pristine suit was wrinkled and there was a stain on the collar of his shirt.  It looked suspiciously a lot like a drop or two of blood.

If Greg didn’t know any better, he’d say Sherlock was using again.

He had come to the crime scene and looked around.  Not much had left his mouth but what had, had been mumbled.  Except for the insults.  Despite being fewer of them, they were a lot harsher and because, despite what Sherlock said, his team was smart, everyone kept out of Sherlocks way.  Everyone, except for fucking Donovan.

Sherlock had been standing to the side, looking for all the world, like he was lost, after spouting out his deductions.  Several times he had raked a shaky hand through his unwashed hair.

Greg had tried to ascertain if he were alright, but Sherlock had just snapped at him to leave him alone and then went back to looking lost.  Several times he checked his phone.  

It was as Greg was about to tell him to go home and get some rest, when Donovan strolled up to him and, with a smirk on her face, opened her mouth and spoke.

The change was instant.  The term ‘G _oing Feral_ ’ was definitely appropriate.

Sherlock went from looking lost to sneering, his teeth bared.

“You stupid cow” he snarled and instantly, Sally stepped back finally aware that Sherlock had a limit.  “If you put half as much effort into your work, as you do at being useless, you wouldn’t have to sleep your way to the top, waiting for Greg to retire or be killed so you can get his position, which, by the way, won’t go to you, despite what the Superintendent says.  If you channeled even a fraction of your energy into actually doing your work, people may actually respect you for more than just a walking pair of ti…”

“Alright, enough” Greg said, stepping between the two, who had started to attract a crowd.  He turned to Sally.  “You, go do something useful. We’ll talk about this after the case.”  When she didn’t budge, he yelled “Go!”  and she scuttled away.

When he turned back to Sherlock the man was practically hyperventilating.  “Look, Sherlock” Greg said, placing a hand on the other man’s arm.

Instantly, Sherlock snatched his arm back and he sneered at Greg, as he had done at Sally.

“No” Greg snapped.  “You don’t get to pull that fucking shit on me, do you hear” Greg said sternly, but quietly enough that only Sherlock could hear him.  Sherlock’s face slackened and his whole body seemed to droop.

“I’m going to take you home” Greg said.  Sherlock went to protest, but Greg put his foot down.  “No, you are going to come with me, I am going to take you home.  You are going to eat and sleep and then, when you have slept for several hours, you are going to shower.  Then, you are going to sort out whatever the hell is wrong.  Understand?”

There was no answer.

“Don’t make me get Mrs Hudson in on this” Greg warned.  “Do you understand?”

Sherlock gave a pathetic nod, and seemed to droop even more.  Greg thought if he drooped much more, he was going to have to pick the man up off the floor.

The drive back to the flat was silent.  Whatever was on Sherlock’s mind was not going to be discussed.  They pulled up to the flat and Greg let Sherlock go up to the flat on his own, opting to go knock on Mrs Hudsons door.  

Surprisingly enough, she didn’t answer, but a man in a three-piece suit and a frown Greg had seen somewhere before, did.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade” the man greeted formally, his voice vaguely familiar.

Greg frowned.  “Do I know you?”

The man smiled a smile that didn’t seem like a smile at all.  In fact, it was a bit terrifying.

“In a way” he said smoothly.  “I trust you just escorted Sherlock home, yes?”

It was worded as a question but Greg somehow felt that this man already knew the answer.  Hell, there probably wasn’t a question out there that he didn’t know the answer to.

“He’s upstairs” Greg said, pointlessly.  “I’m sorry, but how do you know Sherlock?”

The man held out his hand.  “Mycroft Holmes” he introduced.  “We have spoken on the phone, several times.”

Greg had been right.  Meeting Mycroft Holmes was a slightly terrifying experience.

“I did advise my brother not to go to the crime scene, but alas, he never has been one to follow good advice” Mycroft continued, not noticing how uncomfortable Greg was feeling right then.  Actually, scrap that - if the man was like Sherlock at all, and Greg would bet his badge that he was, he knew exactly how Greg was feeling and just didn’t give a shit.

“Yeah, I noticed he was off.  Has he, you know, started…”

“No, Detective Inspector.  My brother hasn’t fallen off the sobriety wagon” Mycroft assured, all business like.  “But he is going through a bit of personal turmoil at the moment.  Perhaps if you were to give him a couple of weeks before inviting him along on any more cases.”

Greg nodded, recognising what sounded like a friendly suggestion as a politely worded direct order.  “Sure.  Let him know he can call me if… well, he can call me.”

Again, Mycroft smiled that not smile and gave a short bow of his head.  “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

If that wasn’t a dismissal then Greg didn’t know what was. With a nod of his head, Greg turned to leave.  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, feeling like he should go up and check on Sherlock, but then he heard Mrs Hudson mothering the younger man and felt better about leaving him alone and he continued his way out onto the street.

With a sigh, he got into his car.  “A couple of weeks” Greg mumbled, starting the engine.  If Sherlock voluntarily stayed away from New Scotland Yard for two weeks, then this was serious indeed.

~o~

###  **Three weeks later...**

Greg rang the doorbell again, holding the buzzer down longer this time.  

Mycroft had told Greg to give Sherlock two weeks.  He had given Sherlock three and had not heard even a whisper from the man.  Not even a text telling Greg to stop bothering him.  Which meant that Greg was now officially worried.

“Come on” he grumbled under his breath, stamping his feet against the cold.  “Answer your bloody door.”

He was about to ring the bell again, when he heard footsteps.  He took a step back when the door swung open.

“Oh, Detective Lestrade, how lovely to see you” Mrs Hudson chirped.  “It’s been a while, how have you been?”

Greg smiled at the old woman, and if she noticed it was strained, she didn’t let on.

“Yeah, not too bad and yourself?”

“Oh, I can’t complain.  My hips a bit twingy in this weather, but if that’s all of got to complain about at my age.”  She left the sentence hanging and gave Greg another friendly smile.

“Is, umm, is Sherlock around?” He asked, looking past her to the stairs leading up to apartment B, hoping she’d get the point and let him in.

“Yes, he’s upstairs, but they’re sleeping just now.  It’s not an emergency is it?” She asked looking worried and all Grteg could think of was who the hell _they_ were.  “It’s just, they haven’t had a lot of rest lately, you know with all that has been going on and I don’t really want to disturb them.”

Still utterly bewildered Greg nodded his head and then quickly said “No, no.  Not an emergency. Just hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks.  Wanted to make sure everything was all good.”

Mrs Hudson reached out and patted his arm.  “It’s much better now” She said.  “I’ll let him know you dropped by.”

Feeling a bit dumb and not really knowing what else to say, Greg just nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”  He had so many questions running through his head but clearly they weren’t going to get answered today, because Mrs Hudson bid him farewell and closed the door.

Feeling less concerned, but more confused, Greg went home.

~o~

###  **A month later...**

**Any case will do. SH**

Greg wanted to do several things.  The first one was to fling the bloody phone at the wall.  It was four o’clock in the bloody morning and all Greg had wanted to do, was sleep until he had to get up and get ready for work.  

The second was to send a text message telling Sherlock bloody Holmes to sod off.  Nothing for seven weeks, not even a _Hi, I’m fine_.  And now, suddenly, he wants a bloody case.

He also wanted to yell out Hallelujah because despite Sherlock being a twat on a constant basis and insulting Greg multiple times in a day, Greg had missed the man.  More than he thought he would.

What he did do was thumb out a text saying:

**I will text as soon as soon as something comes up.**

And then he laid back down and went back to sleep.

~o~

###  **Four days later...**

Greg was just about to pull on a blue suit when he heard Donovan practically yelling outside.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

Greg couldn’t stop the grin when he heard Sherlock reply.  “I was invited” he said sarcastically.

Greg placed the suit back on the pile and went out to greet the man.

“Who’s this?” Sally asked with a sneer and Greg sighed.  She clearly hadn’t learnt after her last meeting with Sherlock, but at the same time, Sherlock shouldn’t be bringing other people to a crime scene.

“This is my husband” Sherlock replied as if speaking to a small child.

Greg almost tripped and Sally was left with her mouth hanging over.

“You must be Sally Donovan” the small man with a cane and his arm in a sling said to Sally.  “Sherlock here has told me all about you.”

That didn’t sound as friendly as it could have and Greg couldn’t give a shit.  “Sally, let them through” he called and after a glare from Donovan she turned back and lifted the tape for both men to duck under.

“You know what I think, don’t you” she said as Sherlock passed her by.

“Yeah, but we just don’t care” said the other man before Sherlock could even open his mouth to reply, and once more Greg nearly tripped and he wasn’t even walking this time.

Within a few steps both men were standing in front of Greg and Greg got a good look at this new man, Sherlocks husband.

“What’s different about this one?” Sherlock asked, looking around at everything but Greg and not acknowledging that he had brought his husband along to the crime scene with him.

“This one left a note” Greg said slowly as he looked at the shorter man.  Something seemed familiar.  Distant, but familiar.

“Where?” Sherlock asked, straight to the point.

“Top floor” Greg answered and then turned back to the other man.

“I’m sorry, but, do I know you?  You seem a bit familiar.”

Sherlock let out a sigh and muttered something about wasting time and took off towards the house where the body was waiting.  “I’ll meet you up there, John” he called, impatient.  “Don’t be too long with the formalities.  I know how you get when you’re being friendly.”

The man, John, just chuckled as Sherlock strode away and turned back to Greg, Holding out his good hand.

“Doctor John Watson, and yeah, we met, about five years ago” he said.

Greg tried to think where he would have met this man but for the life of him, he couldn’t place it.  

“You brought Sherlock into A&E high off his tits and with a broken wrist.”

It suddenly clicked into place.  John, Doctor John Watson.  He was the doctor who had come out and spoken to Greg that first night he had met Sherlock.  He was younger then, obviously, and had a bit of a beard, but it was definitely the same man.

“And you…” Greg indicated back towards the house where Sherlock was.

“Yeah, visited him in rehab, used my leave to come back and visit him when he got out of rehab.”

“Leave?”  Greg asked.  God he hated being this confused.  

“Yeah, When I met Sherlock I was about to go back and do another tour or Afghanistan.  He surprised me a couple of times by coming to visit me.  He’s amazing. How could I not marry him?  And then, well, I sort of got myself shot” and at this John sort of held up the arm that was in the sling, as best he could and it dawned on Greg that this man wasn’t just a doctor, but was also a soldier.  "Remind me to take you out for a pint or two.”

“Me? What for?” Greg asked, completely surprised.

“Well, you introduced us, for one but you have also been keeping him occupied while I was away” John said with a genuine smile.  “You have no idea how comforting it has been to know that he has had things to distract from the noise in his head, that and, the few times I was here, I had to try and keep him from getting himself killed - I know what you put up with.”

Greg gave John a nod.  “Well, when you put it like that” and both men smiled.  

Just then Greg’s phone vibrated in his pocket.  He pulled it out and read the message.

**When you have finished with my husband, do you think you could actually find it in yourself to come up and at least pretend to do your job.  Anderson is trying to engage in detective work and I fear that if you are not here in thirty seconds, he may start crying again. SH**

Greg let out a groan.  “Wanna make that first pint, tonight?” he asked, showing John the text.

John just chuckled and agreed and together they made their way towards the house, where Sherlock holmes was waiting for his husband.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Putting Up Shelves? Greg’s smirk and cheeky wink? If you are like me and had to have this pointed out to you, during TEH, ‘Putting up shelves’ is a euphemism for dropping by for a quick shag. That may also explain Sherlocks little smirk in the show.
> 
> There is now a companion to this story, told from Johns POV about how those two idiots fell in love and got married. It's a bit longer than this one, and a bit more angstier, but if you want to give it a read, you can find it here - [The One Who Apparently Married Sherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13807347)


End file.
